The Record of Nicholas Freydon Part 15

'Yes, yes; to be sure. Begun already, as you say. Well, I told the old--I told my father I thought thirty-five shillings a week would-- Well, I'll tell you what. You go ahead as you've begun, and at the end of a month we'll make your pay two pounds a week. How'll that suit?'

'Thank you, sir; that will suit me very well.'

'Right. By the way, don't say "sir" to me, please. They all call me "Mr. John," and my father "Mr. Canning." See! Now, I'll just introduce you to Mr. Meadows, our accountant, and he will show you round. Mr.

Meadows has charge of our clerical staff, you understand; but you'll have most to do with me, of course. There's a little bit of a room opposite mine, where we keep the stationery an' that. I dare say you'll be able to work there.'

In this wise, then, with most fortunate ease, I secured my first employment in the capital city; and very well it suited me, for the present. Within a week I found that I was left to open all letters, and to deal with them very much as I thought best, with references of course to Mr. John, and at times, in a matter of accounts, to Mr.

Meadows, or again to the storekeeper and others. It was not good shorthand practice, but his correspondence pleased Mr. John very much--especially its more rotund phrases--whilst for my part I keenly relished the fact that I, the most junior member of the staff, had really less of supervision in my work than any one else in the office.

Upon the whole I was ent.i.tled, on that evening of my first day in the Suss.e.x Street offices, to feel that I had made a tolerably creditable beginning, and that Sydney had treated the latest suppliant for her favour rather well. What I very well remember I did feel was that I should have an interesting story for Mr. William Smith that night when I reached 'my rooms' at North Sh.o.r.e.

XV

My third day at J. Canning and Son's offices was a Sat.u.r.day, and the establishment closed at one o'clock. My room-mate, Mr. Smith, had invited me to spend the afternoon with him at Manly, the favourite sea-beach resort close to Sydney Heads. I had other plans in view, but did not like to refuse Mr. Smith, and so spent the time with him, not without enjoyment.

Manly was not, of course, the thronged and crowded place it is to-day, but its Sat.u.r.day afternoon visitors were fairly numerous, and most of them were people who showed in a variety of ways that they did not have to consider very closely the expenditure of a sovereign or so.

For our part, Mr. Smith's and mine, I doubt if our outing cost more than five shillings; and, though I succeeded in paying my own boat-fares, my companion insisted upon settling himself for the refreshments we had: a cup of tea in the afternoon, and a sort of high tea or supper before leaving. I had not begun to tire of watching people, and was innocent enough to derive keen satisfaction from the thought that I, too, was one of these city folk, business people, office men, who gave their Sat.u.r.day leisure to the quest of ocean breezes and recreation in this well-known resort.

Yes, from this distance, it is a little hard to realise perhaps, but it is a fact that at this particular time I was genuinely proud of being a clerk in an office, in place of being a handy lad, and one of the manual workers. It was my lot in later years to dictate considerable correspondence to young men who practised shorthand and typewriting--they called themselves secretaries, not correspondence clerks--and I always felt an interest in their characters and affairs, and endeavoured to show them every consideration. But I cannot say that those who served me in this capacity ever played just the sort of part I played as a correspondence clerk in Suss.e.x Street. But they always interested me, none the less, and I showed them special consideration; no doubt because I remembered a period when I took much secret pride and satisfaction in having obtained entrance to their ranks, from what in all countries which I have visited is accounted a lowlier walk of life. And yet, as I see it now, I must confess that I am inclined to think the handy lad in the open air has rather the best of it. I admit this is open to question, however. Fortunately there are compensations in both cases.

'For a young fellow you do a lot of thinking,' said Mr. Smith to me as we walked slowly down to the ferry stage in leaving Manly. Of course I indulged in one of my idiotic blushes.

'No; oh no,' I told him. 'I was only watching the people.'

'Well, there's nothing to be ashamed of in thinking,' he justly said.

'If most of the youngsters in Sydney did a deal more of it, it would be a lot better for them.'

'Ah, you mean thinking about their work.' I knew instinctively, and because of remarks he had made, that my elderly room-mate thought well of me as being a very practical lad, seriously determined to get on in the world. And so, also instinctively, I played up, as they say, to this view of my character, and I dare say overdid it at times; certainly to the extent of making myself appear more practical, or more concentrated upon material progress, than I really was.

'Oh, I don't know about that,' said Mr. Smith as we boarded the steamer. 'Business isn't the only thing in life, and there are plenty other things worth thinking about.' Yes, odd as it seems, it was I who was being reminded that there were other things worth thinking of besides business; I ... 'No, but it would be better for 'em to do a lot more thinking about all kinds of things. Thinking is better than running after little chits of girls who ought to be smacked and put to bed.'

Two refulgent youths had just pa.s.sed us, in the wake of damsels whose favour they apparently sought to win as favour is perhaps won in poultry-yards--by cackling.

'I've had to do a powerful lot of talking in my time,' continued Mr.

Smith; 'and now I like to see any one, and especially any young fellow, understand that it's not necessary to talk for talking's sake, and that when you've nothing particular to say, it's better to be quiet and think, than--than just to blither, as so many do.'

I endeavoured to look as much as possible like a deep thinker as I acquiesced, and made mental note of the fact that I had evidently been rather neglecting my companion.

'Mind you,' he added, 'it isn't only in office hours and at his work that a man makes for success in business. Not a bit of it. It's when he's thinking things out away from the office. Why, some of the best business I ever brought off I've really done in bed--the planning out of it, you know.'

I nodded the understanding sympathy of a wily and experienced hand at business. I wonder if the average youth is equally adaptive! Probably not, for I suppose it means I was a good deal of a humbug. All I knew of business, so far, was what Suss.e.x Street had shown me; and if I had been perfectly candid, I should have admitted that, so far from striking me as interesting, it seemed to me absurdly, incredibly dull and uninteresting; so much so as to have a guise of unreality to me.

But my letters interested me none the less.

The facts of the situation were unreal. I cared nothing about Canning and Son's profits, or the prices of Mr. Gubbins's b.u.t.ter; nothing whatever. But I derived considerable satisfaction from turning out a letter the fluent suavity of which I thought would impress Mr.

Gubbins. Primarily, my satisfaction came from the impression the letters made upon me personally. Also, I enjoyed the sense of importance it gave me to open the firm's letters myself, and to tell myself that, given certain bald facts to be acquired from this man or the other, I could reply to them far better than Mr. John could. I liked to make him think my smugly correct phrasing was his own, because I knew it was much more polished, and I thought it much more effective than his own; and I liked to figure myself a sort of anonymous power behind the throne--the Suss.e.x Street throne!

As we breasted the hill together from the North Sh.o.r.e landing-place, Mr. Smith delivered himself of these sapient words, designed, I am sure, to be of real help to me:

'What they call success in life is a simple business, really; only n.o.body thinks so, and so very few find it out. They're always looking round for special dodges, and wasting time following up special methods recommended by this fool or the other. There's only one thing wanted really for success, and that's just keeping on. Just keeping on; that's all. If you never let go of yourself--never, mind you, but just keep on, steady and regular, you can't help succeeding. It just comes to you. But you must keep on. It's no good having a shot at this, and trying the other. The way is just to keep on.'

My mentor was in a seriously practical vein on this Sat.u.r.day night; partly perhaps because, as the event proved, he was within four days of one of his periodical disappearances.

XVI

In the early afternoon of Sunday I set out upon the visit I had originally intended to pay on the previous day.

Three o'clock found me rather nervously ringing a bell at the door of Filson House in Macquarie Street. Under the brightly polished bell-pull was the name C. F. Rawlence, and the legend: 'Do not ring unless an answer is required.' It was my first experience of such a notice, and I felt uncertain how it was intended to apply. Neither for the moment could I understand why in the world any sane person should ring a bell unless desirous of eliciting a response of some kind. Finally, I decided that it must be a plaintive and exceedingly trustful appeal to the good nature of urchins who might be tempted to ring and run away.

A smiling young Chinaman presently opened the door to me, and said: 'You come top-side alonga me, pease; Mr. Lollance he's in.'

So I walked upstairs behind the silent, felt-shod Asiatic, and wondered what was coming next. I had hitherto a.s.sociated Chinamen in Australia exclusively with market-gardening and laundry work. The house was not a very high one, but it really was its 'top-side' we walked to, and, arrived there, I was shown into what I thought must certainly be the largest and most magnificent apartment in Sydney.

I dare say the room was thirty feet long by twenty feet wide, without counting the huge fireplace at one end, which formed a room in itself, and did actually accommodate several easy chairs, though I cannot think the weather was ever cold enough in Sydney to admit of people sitting so close to a log fire as these chairs were placed. There were suits of armour, skins of beasts, strange weapons, curious tapestries, and other stock properties of artists' studios, all conventional enough, and yet to me most startling. I had never before visited a studio, and did not know that artists affected these things. The magnificence of it all impressed me enormously. It almost oppressed me with a sense of my own temerity in venturing to visit any one who maintained such state.

'This is what it means to be a famous artist,' I told myself, well a.s.sured now, in my innocence, that Mr. Rawlence must be very famous.

'Every one else probably knew it before,' I thought. And just then the great man himself appeared, not at the door behind me, but between heavy curtains which hid some other entrance. He came forward with a welcoming smile. Then, for a moment this gave place to rather blank inquiry. And then the smile returned and broadened.

'Why, it's-- No, it can't be. But it is--my young friend of St.

Peter's. I'm delighted. Welcome to Sydney. Sit down, sit down, and let me have your news.'

He reclined in a sidelong way upon a sort of ottoman, and gracefully waved me to an enormous chair facing him.

'There are always a few charitable souls who drop in upon me of a Sunday afternoon, but I'd no idea you would be the first of them to-day.'

Here was a disturbing announcement for me!

'Perhaps it would be more convenient if I came one evening, Mr.

Rawlence,' I said awkwardly, half rising from the chair.

'Tut, tut, my dear lad! Sit down, sit down. Why should other visitors disturb you? There will only be good fellows like yourself. Ladies are rarities here on a Sunday. And in any case-- Why, you are quite the man of the world now.' This with kindly admiration. Then he screwed up his eyes, moved his head backward and from side to side, as though to correct his view of a picture. 'Just one point out of the picture.

Dare I alter it? May I?' And, stepping forward, he thrust well down in my breast coat pocket Mrs. Gabbitas's gorgeous silk handkerchief.

'Yes,' as he moved backward again, 'that's better. One never can see these things for oneself. But let me make sure of your important news before we are interrupted.'

So I told my story as well as I could, and Mr. Rawlence was in the act of expressing his kindly interest therein, when I heard steps and voices on the stairs below.

'If you're not otherwise engaged you must stay till these fellows go, Nick,' said my host. 'We haven't half finished our talk, you know.

And--er--if you should be talking to any one here of--er--your present situation, I should leave it quite vague, if I were you; secretarial work you know--something of that sort. We may have some newspaper men here who might be useful to you one day--you follow me?'

'Ah! Hail! Good of you to have come, Landon. Ah, Foster! Jones! Good men! Do find seats. Oh, let me introduce a new arrival--Mr. Nicholas Freydon; Mr. Landon, the disgracefully well-known painter, Mr. Foster and Mr. Jones, both of the Fourth Estate, though frequently taken for quite respectable members of society. We may not have a Fleet Street here, you know, Freydon, but we have one or two rather decent newspapers, as you may have noticed.'

He turned to the still smiling young Chinaman. 'Let's have cigars and cigarettes, Ah Lun.'

I gathered that I had been presented as a new arrival from England. It was rather startling; but so far I found that an occasional smile was all that seemed expected of me, and I was of course anxious to do my best. 'Good thing I've started smoking,' I thought, as Ah Lun began pa.s.sing round two ma.s.sive silver boxes, with cigars and cigarettes.

The visitors were mostly young, rather noticeably young, I thought, in view of the greying hair over Mr. Rawlence's temples; and I felt less and less alarmed as I listened to their talk. In fact, shamelessly disrespectful though the idea was, I found myself, after a while, wondering whether Mr. Smith might not have called some of the conversation 'cackle.' And then some technicalities, journalistic and artistic, began to star the talk, and I meekly rebuked my own presumption. But I have no doubt whatever that Mr. Smith would have called most of it 'cackle,' and it is possible he would have been tolerably near the truth.